


the still house

by scribblingnellie



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthea Appreciation, Anthea is a dedicated PA, Dinner?, Emotions, F/M, Feelings, Feels, Light Angst, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft seems to inspire a certain type of fic!, Mycroft's lovely house, POV Mycroft Holmes, Restless, Tea, captivated, confused, he IS the British Government, mycroft's hands, mythea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:30:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblingnellie/pseuds/scribblingnellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes finds himself restless and confused. What has caused his mind to be so unsettled? And what can he do about it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the still house

  
  
Restless. It was a new sensation for him. Sitting in the old comfortable leather armchair, a small fire burning in the hearth, did nothing to ease his state of mind. That was unusual.

Unable to remain seated, Mycroft found himself out in the corridor; his mind busy trying to work out the reason for his discomposure. The dark oak panelling and soft wall lights lacked their usual reassuring warmth. Silently wandering along the corridor, he found himself at the door of his study. Hand reaching for the brass knob, he felt compelled to enter. Had he left some piece of work unfinished? In his position he was never really off duty so to speak, but work had been put aside for the evening. He was sure everything that needed completing had been done. Perhaps it was simply the decision to work from home for a few days that was making him restless. Certainly the commute from the large antique desk to his fireside was shorter than usual; maybe the lack of anticipation which accompanied his journey home was confusing his mind.

Pushing the door open, stepping from the polished floorboards onto the thick carpet, he found his study silent. Files were neatly sacked, ready for his attention the next morning. Stopping beside his desk, tapping his long fingers softly against the top file, Mycroft surveyed the room. Everything was in its customary place. Two fresh crystal tumblers had been placed by the refilled decanter, the Queen Anne side chair had been returned to its position against the wall.

His eyes fell upon the books; the small haphazard pile perched on the edge of the window seat. He had meant to return them to the empty space on the bookcase that afternoon. Moving across to where they waited for him, Mycroft halted.

Her perfume.

Normally she wore Chanel No 19, but not today. He'd noticed the moment she let herself into his study that morning. The scent - one he could not identify but which caught at his senses, woody and earthy, something quite different - hung in the air around him, almost corporeal. And with the scent returned the scene in which Mycroft and Anthea had found themselves - kneeling on the carpet, a tumble of books between them.  
...

_Startled by the sudden appearance of his customary afternoon tea tray across from him, Mycroft realised he'd been staring down blankly at the open file in front of him, his thoughts a long way from the current Russian gas situation._

_'Tea time already?'_

_Looking up to see Anthea smiling across the desk at him, Mycroft found his hand accidentally connecting with the small pile of books on the corner of the desk . Perched precariously, they tumbled to the floor, their noise deadened by the carpet. Cursing quietly, Mycroft pushed himself out of his chair and knelt down where they'd landed. And suddenly he became aware that Anthea had done the same. She was quite close to him, close enough to hear her breathing, to see the few small freckles that dotted her hands. Feeling a desire to reach out and touch her fingers, Mycroft's heart gave a deep thud against his chest. She was mesmerizing. Dipping her head, the long dark soft waves covering her face, she retrieved the fallen books. Looking back up, books now gathered in her hands, their eyes locked. It might have only been for a few seconds, but neither of them seemed able to move or speak. Anthea looked away first; was she blushing? Was he staring?_

_The moment broken, he hurriedly pushed away the sensations, pulling down the veneer of ice he liked to put between himself and others. He wasn't capable of, or even interested in, those sorts of emotions, was he? Taking the books from her, Mycroft stood up, placing the pile onto the window seat behind him, out of the way._

_'Thank you, Anthea. My apologies.' Straightening his waistcoat, he smoothed back his hair, slowly breathing in and out._

_'No apologies necessary, sir.' Turning back to his desk, she busied herself with the teapot._

_And with a cup of tea poured, she left. Without looking back, she crossed the carpet in silence and softly closed the door behind her. All that remained was her perfume, curling its way around him._

...

Finding the books in his hands, his fingers slowly stroking the spines, Mycroft snapped his mind back to the present. The feeling remained. Restless. Discomposed. All over the toppling of a small pile of books? Her presence seemed to be lingering, filling the empty silent space of his study.

In six years of quiet loyal service, a service that had grown considerably in its efficiency and capability, Anthea had always been there. He acknowledged to himself that he did take her presence, her abilities for granted but was aware of how much he depended upon her; couldn't do without her, he believed that's how the phrase went.

So what had happened that afternoon? What had caused such an emotional, uncharacteristic response in him? Something had shifted his perception of her. His reaction to her being so near him was unexpected. Anger, frustration, annoyance, belligerence, satisfaction, indignation; those were the more usual emotions he felt within his work and his family. But this emotion was not one he had felt before. It had crept its way in and continued to discompose him, pushing against his mind and his body. What was it trying to tell him?

Replacing the books on the window seat, Mycroft reached carefully into his jacket and removed his mobile. Logic seemed to suggest that the feeling stemmed from the events of that afternoon; and those events felt unresolved.

His call was answered on the second ring as always.

'Sir?'

Her voice caught at the restlessness in him, making his heart jump; this physicality of feeling was so new to him.

'Anthea... I seem to find myself somewhat unsettled this evening. May I.. may I make the presumptuous request of your company for dinner? I think that... it would ease my mind to spend the time with you. I can send the car back?'

Silence on the other end. Had he offended her? Perhaps it was not how one asked someone to dinner; but this was a situation which Mycroft had never found himself in. He had never felt the sudden, overwhelming desire to have the company of one particular person in such an intimate setting as dinner.

'I would like that, sir.'

Soft and quiet, Mycroft found her voice comforting. As it gently wrapped itself around his mind, the restless feeling began to ease. And he noticed another new sensation stealing in alongside - hope? anticipation?

'Thank you, Anthea.'

'May I ask, sir, if this is a work related occasion or something more... unofficial.'

'Unofficial, my dear. Most certainly unofficial.'

*****

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the prompt 'the still house' from alm writes November prompts, I found myself imagining a restless, confused, contemplative Mycroft, who begins to realise that perhaps something is missing in his life! Many thanks for reading.


End file.
